Fourth Cup
by Apalapucian
Summary: "We'll be alright, Lily," he tells her, never mind that his voice is hoarse. He strokes her hair comfortingly with his other hand. He can feel her tears on his shirt, he can feel her shoulders shudder, and it breaks his heart.


**AN: **Drabble.'_James crying' _was the prompt, sent by an anon on Tumblr. If you've read it there, I made some edits as per usual! x

* * *

Maybe it's the wind, howling outside and rattling the windows, or the bed creaking every time James moves. There's a ringing in her ears that won't shut up, her limbs are tingling, and there's a lump in her throat that doesn't go away. She knows what this is, knows what she needs to do to let it out, everything out, but... she doesn't want to cry. Not again.

So she untangles herself from James as discretely as she can, slips out of bed, and gets out.

It won't always be this way, she thinks as she traverses down the short flight of stairs, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She'll get over the initial impact of the prophecy and get back to the ingrained familiarity with the war. She'll get used to the fact that they're _nineteen_ and expecting a baby and manning the battlefield front lines. She'll find her spirit again. It's just the shock, that's all...

(A baby to defeat Voldemort. He'll find them, Dumbledore said. Murder them, he didn't say, but still. Must go to hiding... _Her_ baby...)

She tries not to think more when she reaches the first floor, focusing solely on the familiar task of making tea, maybe a platter of biscuits too, and a good book from the cluttered pile on the coffee table. She'll spend a few hours by the makeshift window seat James broke two fingers building last week. She smiles at the memory of it. She'll watch the sunrise. She hopes it isn't too cloudy today. She tilts her head up by instinct, picturing James clearly as if she's standing over him. She wonders if he'd wake in her absence. But it's been four nights of falling asleep downstairs and he hasn't said a word.

She always wakes up in the late morning with a blanket around her shoulders, though. And a sleeping, mouth-open, arms-crossed, glasses-askewed husband on the couch.

They don't talk about it.

She sighs and reaches up to open the cupboard—and her heart falls when she realizes they've run out of tea. She stands there for a moment, feeling really sad all of a sudden, and she tries not to let such a small thing—_it's just tea, Lily, just tea_—shatter what little composure she's rounded up. She takes deep slow breaths and pads her way out to the living room.

_Just the biscuits then..._

Something catches her eye as she perfunctorily goes through the books. She straightens up, frowning, and walks towards the window seat. There's a mug of hot tea on there, propped on top of her favorite Muggle novel, placed neatly on the side. Two pillows and a Gryffindor red quilt.

Lily stares.

The mug must be enchanted, or maybe the tea, because it's piping hot still, and the room is a little drafty.

She tears up, but smiles.

There's a note stuck on the window. She recognizes his hasty, ragged scrawl at once.

_Feel better, yeah?  
Come back soon._

–James

She wipes her cheeks and rolls her eyes. At him, at herself.

She takes the note and goes back upstairs.

* * *

He didn't think she'd be back so soon, but barely ten minutes passed and she's crawling back to bed and wrapping an arm around him. He sighs and draws her closer.

She doesn't say anything though. She doesn't ask if he's awake. But he knows that she knows.

"We'll be alright, Lily," he tells her, never mind that his voice is hoarse. He strokes her hair comfortingly with his other hand. He can feel her tears on his shirt, he can feel her shoulders shudder, and it breaks his heart.

"I know," she says. "I love you."

"_I_ know."

That makes her chuckle.

She cries some more for a while, and he holds her in silence until she calms down and, by the way her breathing slows and her body stills, finally falls asleep.

James tightens his hold on her.

He's never been more scared in his life. He doesn't know what he'd do if he lost her, or the baby, and damn this whole goddamn war.

He doesn't sleep. He can't. He hasn't been.

He stares determinedly up at the ceiling, dark and hazy without his glasses, but a tear still rolls down his cheek and unto Lily's tangled red mess of a hair. She stirs and mumbles his name, but she doesn't wake up.

He kisses the top of her head.

"I love you, too," he murmurs, and his voice cracks.

It's been four days. He hopes it's the last.


End file.
